Chapter XVIII: September 1822-July 1823 (2)

"Indeed, I do believe, my dear Trelawny," wrote Mary in reply, on the
30th of January 1823, "that you are the best friend I have, and most
truly would I rather apply to you in any difficulty than to any one
else, for I know your heart, and rely on it. At present I am very well
off, having still a considerable residue of the money I brought with
me from Pisa, and besides, I have received L33 from the _Liberal_.
Part of this I have been obliged to send to Clare. You will be sorry
to hear that the last account she has sent of herself is that she has
been seriously ill. The cold of Vienna has doubtless contributed to
this,--as it is even a dangerous aggravation of her old complaint. I
wait anxiously to hear from her. I sent her fifteen napoleons, and
shall send more if necessary and if I can. Lord B. continues kind: he
has made frequent offers of money. I do not want it, as you see."

_Journal, February 2nd._--On the 21st of January those rites were
fulfilled. Shelley! my own beloved! you rest beneath the blue sky of
Rome; in that, at least, I am satisfied.

What matters it that they cannot find the grave of my William? That
spot is sanctified by the presence of his pure earthly vesture, and
that is sufficient--at least, it must be. I am too truly miserable to
dwell on what at another time might have made me unhappy. He is
beneath the tomb of Cestius. I see the spot.

_February 3._--A storm has come across me; a slight circumstance has
disturbed the deceitful calm of which I boasted. I thought I heard my
Shelley call me--not my Shelley in heaven, but my Shelley, my
companion in my daily tasks. I was reading; I heard a voice say,
"Mary!" "It is Shelley," I thought; the revulsion was of agony. Never
more....

Mrs. Shelley's affairs now assumed an aspect which made her foresee the ultimate advisability, if not necessity, of returning to England. Sir Timothy Shelley had declined giving any answer to the application made to him for an allowance for his son's widow and child; and Lord Byron, as Shelley's executor, had written to him directly for a decisive answer, which he obtained.

SIR TIMOTHY SHELLEY TO LORD BYRON.

FIELD PLACE, _6th February 1823_.

MY LORD--I have received your Lordship's letter, and my solicitor, Mr.
Whitton, has this day shown me copies of certificates of the marriage
of Mrs. Shelley and of the baptism of her little boy, and also, a
short abstract of my son's will, as the same have been handed to him
by Mr. Hanson.

The mind of my son was withdrawn from me and my immediate family by
unworthy and interested individuals, when he was about nineteen, and
after a while he was led into a new society and forsook his first
associates.

In this new society he forgot every feeling of duty and respect to me
and to Lady Shelley.

Mrs. Shelley was, I have been told, the intimate friend of my son in
the lifetime of his first wife, and to the time of her death, and in
no small degree, as I suspect, estranged my son's mind from his
family, and all his first duties in life; with that impression on my
mind, I cannot agree with your Lordship that, though my son was
unfortunate, Mrs. Shelley is innocent; on the contrary, I think that
her conduct was the very reverse of what it ought to have been, and I
must, therefore, decline all interference in matters in which Mrs.
Shelley is interested. As to the child, I am inclined to afford the
means of a suitable protection and care of him in this country, if he
shall be placed with a person I shall approve; but your Lordship will
allow me to say that the means I can furnish will be limited, as I
have important duties to perform towards others, which I cannot
forget.

I have thus plainly told your Lordship my determination, in the hope
that I may be spared from all further correspondence on a subject so
distressing to me and my family.

With respect to the will and certificates, I have no observation to
make. I have left them with Mr. Whitton, and if anything is necessary
to be done with them on my part, he will, I am sure, do it.--I have
the honour, my Lord, to be your Lordship's most obedient humble
servant,

T. SHELLEY.

Granting the point of view from which it was written, this letter, though hard, was not unnatural. The author of _Adonais_ was, to Sir Timothy, a common reprobate, a prodigal who, having gone into a far country, would have devoured his father's living--could he have got it--with harlots; but who had come there to well-deserved grief, and for whose widow even husks were too good. To any possible colouring or modification of this view he had resolutely shut his eyes and ears. No modification of his conclusions was, therefore, to be looked for.

But neither could it be expected that his point of view should be intelligible to Mary. Nor did it commend itself to Godwin. It would have been as little for his daughter's interest as for her happiness to surrender the custody of her child.

MARY SHELLEY TO LORD BYRON.

MY DEAR LORD BYRON-- ... It appears to me that the mode in which Sir
Timothy Shelley expresses himself about my child plainly shows by what
mean principles he would be actuated. He does not offer him an asylum
in his own house, but a beggarly provision under the care of a
stranger.

Setting aside that, I would not part with him. Something is due to me.
I should not live ten days separated from him. If it were necessary
for me to die for his benefit the sacrifice would be easy; but his
delicate frame requires all a mother's solicitude; nor shall he be
deprived of my anxious love and assiduous attention to his happiness
while I have it in my power to bestow it on him; not to mention that
his future respect for his excellent Father and his moral wellbeing
greatly depend upon his being away from the immediate influence of his
relations.

This, perhaps, you will think nonsense, and it is inconceivably
painful to me to discuss a point which appears to me as clear as
noonday; besides I lose all--all honourable station and name--when I
admit that I am not a fitting person to take charge of my infant. The
insult is keen; the pretence of heaping it upon me too gross; the
advantage to them, if the will came to be contested, would be too
immense.

As a matter of feeling, I would never consent to it. I am said to have
a cold heart; there are feelings, however, so strongly implanted in my
nature that, to root them out, life will go with it.--Most truly
yours,

MARY SHELLEY.

GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

STRAND, _14th February 1823_.

MY DEAR MARY--I have this moment received a copy of Sir Timothy
Shelley's letter to Lord Byron, dated 6th February, and which,
therefore, you will have seen long before this reaches you. You will
easily imagine how anxious I am to hear from you, and to know the
state of your feelings under this, which seems like the last, blow of
fate.

I need not, of course, attempt to assist your judgment upon the
proposition of taking the child from you. I am sure your feelings
would never allow you to entertain such a proposition.

* * * * *

I requested you to let Lord Byron's letter to Sir Timothy Shelley pass
through my hands, and you did so; but to my great mortification, it
reached me sealed with his Lordship's arms, so that I remained wholly
ignorant of its contents. If you could send me a copy, I should be
then much better acquainted with your present situation.

Your novel is now fully printed and ready for publication. I have
taken great liberties with it, and I fear your _amour propre_ will be
proportionately shocked. I need not tell you that all the merit of the
book is exclusively your own. Beatrice is the jewel of the book; not
but that I greatly admire Euthanasia, and I think the characters of
Pepi, Binda, and the witch decisive efforts of original genius. I am
promised a character of the work in the _Morning Chronicle_ and the
_Herald_, and was in hopes to have sent you the one or the other by
this time. I also sent a copy of the book to the _Examiner_ for the
same purpose.

_Tuesday, 18th February._

Do not, I entreat you, be cast down about your worldly circumstances.
You certainly contain within yourself the means of your subsistence.
Your talents are truly extraordinary. _Frankenstein_ is universally
known, and though it can never be a book for vulgar reading, is
everywhere respected. It is the most wonderful work to have been
written at twenty years of age that I ever heard of. You are now five
and twenty, and, most fortunately, you have pursued a course of
reading, and cultivated your mind, in a manner the most admirably
adapted to make you a great and successful author. If you cannot be
independent, who should be?

Your talents, as far as I can at present discern, are turned for the
writing of fictitious adventures.

If it shall ever happen to you to be placed in sudden and urgent want
of a small sum, I entreat you to let me know immediately; we must see
what I can do. We must help one another.--Your affectionate Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

Mary felt the truth of what her father said, but, wounded and embittered as she was, she had little heart for framing plans.

_Journal, February 24._--Evils throng around me, my beloved, and I
have indeed lost all in losing thee. Were it not for my child, this
would be rather a soothing reflection, and, if starvation were my
fate, I should fulfil that fate without a sigh. But our child demands
all my care now that you have left us. I must be all to him: the
Father, death has deprived him of; the relations, the bad world
permits him not to have. What is yet in store for me? Am I to close
the eyes of our boy, and then join you?

The last weeks have been spent in quiet. Study could not give repose
to, but somewhat regulated, my thoughts. I said: "I lead an innocent
life, and it may become a useful one. I have talent, I will improve
that talent; and if, while meditating on the wisdom of ages, and
storing my mind with all that has been recorded of it, any new light
bursts upon me, or any discovery occurs that may be useful to my
fellows, then the balm of utility may be added to innocence.

What is it that moves up and down in my soul, and makes me feel as if
my intellect could master all but my fate? I fear it is only youthful
ardour--the yet untamed spirit which, wholly withdrawn from the hopes,
and almost from the affections of life, indulges itself in the only
walk free to it, and, mental exertion being all my thought except
regret, would make me place my hopes in that. I am indeed become a
recluse in thought and act; and my mind, turned heavenward, would, but
for my only tie, lose all commune with what is around me. If I be
proud, yet it is with humility that I am so. I am not vain. My heart
shakes with its suppressed emotions, and I flag beneath the thoughts
that oppress me.

Each day, as I have taken my solitary walk, I have felt myself exalted
with the idea of occupation, improvement, knowledge, and peace.
Looking back to my life as a delicious dream, I steeled myself as well
as I could against such severe regrets as should overthrow my
calmness. Once or twice, pausing in my walk, I have exclaimed in
despair, "Is it even so?" yet, for the most part resigned, I was
occupied by reflection--on those ideas you, my beloved, planted in my
mind--and meditated on our nature, our source, and our destination.
To-day, melancholy would invade me, and I thought the peace I enjoyed
was transient. Then that letter came to place its seal on my
prognostications. Yet it was not the refusal, or the insult heaped
upon me, that stung me to tears. It was their bitter words about our
Boy. Why, I live only to keep him from their hands. How dared they
dream that I held him not far more precious than all, save the hope of
again seeing you, my lost one. But for his smiles, where should I now
be?

Stars that shine unclouded, ye cannot tell me what will be--yet I can
tell you a part. I may have misgivings, weaknesses, and momentary
lapses into unworthy despondency, but--save in devotion towards my
Boy--fortune has emptied her quiver, and to all her future shafts I
oppose courage, hopelessness of aught on this side, with a firm trust
in what is beyond the grave.

Visit me in my dreams to-night, my beloved Shelley! kind, loving,
excellent as thou wert! and the event of this day shall be forgotten.

_March 19._--As I have until now recurred to this book to discharge
into it the overflowings of a mind too full of the bitterest waters of
life, so will I to-night, now that I am calm, put down some of my
milder reveries; that, when I turn it over, I may not only find a
record of the most painful thoughts that ever filled a human heart
even to distraction.

I am beginning seriously to educate myself; and in another place I
have marked the scope of this somewhat tardy education, intellectually
considered. In a moral point of view, this education is of some years'
standing, and it only now takes the form of seeking its food in books.
I have long accustomed myself to the study of my own heart, and have
sought and found in its recesses that which cannot embody itself in
words--hardly in feelings. I have found strength in the conception of
its faculties; much native force in the understanding of them; and
what appears to me not a contemptible penetration in the subtle
divisions of good and evil. But I have found less strength of
self-support, of resistance to what is vulgarly called temptation; yet
I think also that I have found true humility (for surely no one can be
less presumptuous than I), an ardent love for the immutable laws of
right, much native goodness of emotion, and purity of thought.

Enough, if every day I gain a profounder knowledge of my defects, and
a more certain method of turning them to a good direction.

Study has become to me more necessary than the air I breathe. In the
questioning and searching turn it gives to my thoughts, I find some
relief to wild reverie; in the self-satisfaction I feel in commanding
myself, I find present solace; in the hope that thence arises, that I
may become more worthy of my Shelley, I find a consolation that even
makes me less wretched than in my most wretched moments.

_March 30._--I have now finished part of the _Odyssey_. I mark this. I
cannot write. Day after day I suffer the most tremendous agitation. I
cannot write, or read, or think. Whether it be the anxiety for letters
that shakes a frame not so strong as hitherto--whether it be my
annoyances here--whether it be my regrets, my sorrow, and despair, or
all these--I know not; but I am a wreck.

A letter from Trelawny gladdened her heart. It said--

I must confess I am to blame in not having sooner written,
particularly as I have received two letters from you here. Nothing
particular has happened to me since our parting but a desperate
assault of Maremma fever, which had nearly reunited me to my friends,
or, as Iago says, removed me. On my arrival here, my first object was
to see the grave of the noble Shelley, and I was most indignant at
finding him confusedly mingled in a heap with five or six common
vagabonds. I instantly set about removing this gross neglect, and
selecting the only interesting spot. I enclosed it apart from all
possibility of sacrilegious intrusion, and removed his ashes to it,
placed a stone over it, am now planting it, and have ordered a granite
to be prepared for myself, which I shall place in this beautiful
recess (of which the enclosed is a drawing I took), for when I am
dead, I have none to do me this service, so shall at least give one
instance in my life of proficiency.

In reply Mary wrote informing him of her change of plan, and begging for all minute details about the tomb, which she was not likely, now, to see. Trelawny was expecting soon to rejoin Byron at Genoa, but he wrote at once.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

ROME, _27th April 1823_.

DEAR MARY--I should have sooner replied to your last, but that I
concluded you must have seen Roberts, who is or ought to be at Genoa.
He will tell you that the ashes are buried in the new enclosed
Protestant burying-ground, which is protected by a wall and gates from
every possible molestation, and that the ashes are so placed apart,
and yet in the centre and most conspicuous spot of the burying-ground.
I have just planted six young cypresses and four laurels, in front of
the recess you see by the drawing is formed by two projecting parts of
the old ruin. My own stone, a plain slab till I can decide on some
fitting inscription, is placed on the left hand. I have likewise dug
my grave, so that, when I die, there is only to lift up my coverlet
and roll me into it. You may lie on the other side, if you like. It is
a lovely spot. The only inscription on Shelley's stone, besides the
_Cor cordium_ of Hunt, are the lines I have added from Shakespeare--

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

This quotation, by its double meaning, alludes both to the manner of
his death and his genius, and I think the element on which his soul
took wing, and the subtle essence of his being mingled, may still
retain him in some other shape. The waters may keep the dead, as the
earth may, and fire and air. His passionate fondness might have been
from some secret sympathy in their natures. Thence the fascination
which so forcibly attracted him, without fear or caution, to trust an
element almost all others hold in superstitious dread, and venture as
cautiously on as they would in a lair of lions. I have just compiled
an epitaph for Keats and sent it to Severn, who likes it much better
than the one he had designed. He had already designed a lyre with only
two of the strings strung, as indicating the unaccomplished maturity
and ripening of his genius. He had intended a long inscription about
his death having been caused by the _neglect_ of his countrymen, and
that, as a mark of his displeasure, he said--thus and then. What I
wished to substitute is simply thus--

Here lies the spoils
of a
Young English Poet,
"Whose master-hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung,"
And by whose desire is inscribed,
That his name was writ in water.

The line quoted, you remember, is in Shelley, _Adonais_, and the last
Keats desired might be engraved on his tomb. Ask Hunt if he thinks it
will do, and to think of something to put on my ante-dated grave. I am
very anxious to hear how Marianne is getting on, and Hunt. You never
mention a word of them or the _Liberal_.

I have been delayed here longer than I had intended, from want of
money, having lent and given it away thoughtlessly. However, old Dunn
has sent me a supply, so I shall go on to Florence on Monday. I will
assuredly see you before you go, and, if my exchequer is not
exhausted, go part of the way with you. However, I will write further
on this topic at Florence. Do not go to England, to encounter poverty
and bitter retrospections. Stay in Italy. I will most gladly share my
income with you, and if, under the same circumstances, you would do
the same by me, why then you will not hesitate to accept it. I know of
nothing would give me half so much pleasure. As you say, in a few
years we shall both be better off. Commend me to Marianne and Hunt,
and believe me, yours affectionately,

E. TRELAWNY.

Poste Restante a Genes.

* * * * *

You need not tell me that all your thoughts are concentrated on the
memory of your loss, for I have observed it, with great regret and
some astonishment. You tell me nothing in your letters of how the
_Liberal_ is getting on. Why do you not send me a number? How many
have come out? Does Hunt stay at Genoa the summer, and what does Lord
Byron determine on? I am told the _Bolivar_ is lent to some one, and
at sea. Where is Jane? and is Mrs. Hunt likely to recover? I shall
certainly go on to Switzerland if I can raise the wind.

* * * * *

MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

_10th May 1823._

MY DEAR TRELAWNY--You appear to have fulfilled my entire wish in all
you have done at Rome. Do you remember the day you made that quotation
from Shakespeare in our living room at Pisa? Mine own Shelley was
delighted with it, and thus it has for me a pleasing association. Some
time hence I may visit the spot which, of all others, I desire most to
see.

* * * * *

It is not on my own account, my excellent friend, that I go to
England. I believe that my child's interests will be best consulted by
my return to that country....

Desiring solitude and my books only, together with the consciousness
that I have one or two friends who, although absent, still think of me
with affection, England of course holds out no inviting prospect to
me. But I am sure to be rewarded in doing or suffering for my little
darling, so I am resigned to this last act, which seems to snap the
sole link which bound the present to the past, and to tear aside the
veil which I have endeavoured to draw over the desolations of my
situation. Your kindness I shall treasure up to comfort me in future
ill. I shall repeat to myself, I have such a friend, and endeavour to
deserve it.

Do you go to Greece? Lord Byron continues in the same mind. The G----
is an obstacle, and certainly her situation is rather a difficult one.
But he does not seem disposed to make a mountain of her resistance,
and he is far more able to take a decided than a petty step in
contradiction to the wishes of those about him. If you do go, it may
hasten your return hither. I remain until Mrs. Hunt's confinement is
over; had it not been for that, the fear of a hot journey would have
caused me to go in this month,--but my desire to be useful to her, and
my anxiety concerning the event of so momentous a crisis has induced
me to stay. You may think with what awe and terror I look forward to
the decisive moment, but I hope for the best. She is as well, perhaps
better, than we could in any way expect.

I had no opportunity to send you a second No. of the _Liberal_; we
only received it a short time ago, and then you were on the wing: the
third number has come out, and we had a copy by post. It has little in
it we expected, but it is an amusing number, and L. B. is better
pleased with it than any other....

I trust that I shall see you soon, and then I shall hear all your
news. I shall see you--but it will be for so short a time--I fear even
that you will not go to Switzerland; but these things I must not dwell
upon,--partings and separations, when there is no circumstance to
lessen any pang. I must brace my mind, not enervate it, for I know I
shall have much to endure.

I asked Hunt's opinion about your epitaph for Keats; he said that the
line from _Adonais_, though beautiful in itself, might be applied to
any poet, in whatever circumstances or whatever age, that died; and
that to be in accord with the two-stringed lyre, you ought to select
one that alluded to his youth and immature genius. A line to this
effect you might find in _Adonais_.

Among the fragments of my lost Shelley, I found the following poetical
commentary on the words of Keats,--not that I recommend it for the
epitaph, but it may please you to see it.

Here lieth one, whose name was writ in water,
But, ere the breath that could erase it blew,
Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,
Death, the immortalising winter, flew
Athwart the stream, and time's mouthless torrent grew
A scroll of crystal, emblazoning the name
Of Adonais.

I have not heard from Jane lately; she was well when she last wrote,
but annoyed by various circumstances, and impatient of her lengthened
stay in England. How earnestly do I hope that Edward's brother will
soon arrive, and show himself worthy of his affinity to the noble and
unequalled creature she has lost, by protecting one to whom protection
is so necessary, and shielding her from some of the ills to which she
is exposed.

Adieu, my dear Trelawny. Continue to think kindly of me, and trust in
my unalterable friendship.

MARY SHELLEY.

Albaro, 10th May.

On his journey to Genoa, Trelawny stayed a night at Lerici, and paid a last visit to the Villa Magni. There, "sleeping still on the mud floor," its mast and oars broken, was Shelley's little skiff, the "Boat on the Serchio."

He mounted the "stairs, or rather ladder," into the dining-room.

As I surveyed its splotchy walls, broken floor, cracked ceiling, and
poverty-struck appearance, while I noted the loneliness of the
situation, and remembered the fury of the waves that in blowing
weather lashed its walls, I did not marvel at Mrs. Shelley's and Mrs.
Williams' groans on first entering it; nor that it had required all
Ned Williams' persuasive powers to induce them to stop there.

But these things were all far away in the past.

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute.

No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

At Genoa he found the "Pilgrim" in a state of supreme indecision. He had left him discontented when he departed in December. The new magazine was not a success. Byron had expected that other literary and journalistic advantages, leading to fame and power, would accrue to him from the coalition with Leigh Hunt and Shelley, but in this he was disappointed, and he was left to bear the responsibility of the partnership alone.

"The death of Shelley and the failure of the _Liberal_ irritated
Byron," writes Trelawny; "the cuckoo-note, 'I told you so,' sung by
his friends, and the loud crowing of enemies, by no means allayed his
ill humour. In this frame of mind he was continually planning how to
extricate himself. His plea for hoarding was that he might have a good
round tangible sum of current coin to aid him in any emergency....

"He exhausted himself in planning, projecting, beginning, wishing,
intending, postponing, regretting, and doing nothing: the unready are
fertile in excuses, and his were inexhaustible."

Since that time he had been flattered and persuaded into joining the Greek Committee, formed in London to aid the Greeks in their war of independence. Byron's name and great popularity would be a tower of strength to them. Their proposals came to him at a right moment, when he was dissatisfied with himself and his position. He hesitated for months before committing himself, and finally summoned Trelawny, in peremptory terms, to come to him and go with him.

_15th June 1823._

MY DEAR T.--You must have heard that I am going to Greece. Why do you
not come to me? I want your aid and am extremely anxious to see
you.... They all say I can be of use in Greece. I do not know how, nor
do they; but, at all events, let us go.--Yours, etc., truly,

N. BYRON.

And, always ready for adventure, the "Pirate" came. Before his arrival Mary's journey had been decided on. Mrs. Hunt's confinement was over: she and the infant had both done well, and she was now in a fair way to live, in tolerable health, for many years longer. Want of funds was now the chief obstacle in Mary's way, but Byron was no longer ready, as he had been, with offers of help. Changeable as the wind, and utterly unable to put himself in another person's place, he, without absolutely declining to fulfil his promises, made so many words about it, and treated the matter as so great a favour on his own part, that Mary at last declined his assistance, although it obliged her to take advantage of Trelawny's often-repeated offers of help, which she would not rather have accepted, as he was poor, while Byron was rich. The whole story unfolds itself in the three ensuing letters.

MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

ALBARO, NEAR GENOA, _July 1823_.

I write to you in preference to my Father, because you, to a great
degree, understand the person I have to deal with, and in
communicating what I say concerning him, you can, _viva voce_, add
such comments as will render my relation more intelligible.

The day after Marianne's confinement, the 9th June, seeing all went on
so prosperously, I told Lord Byron that I was ready to go, and he
promised to provide means. When I talked of going post, it was because
he said that I should go so, at the same time declaring that he would
regulate all himself. I waited in vain for these arrangements. But,
not to make a long story, since I hope soon to be able to relate the
details--he chose to transact our negotiation through Hunt, and gave
such an air of unwillingness and sense of the obligation he conferred,
as at last provoked Hunt to say that there was no obligation, since he
owed me L1000.

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door!

Still keeping up an appearance of amity with Hunt, he has written
notes and letters so full of contempt against me and my lost Shelley
that I could stand it no longer, and have refused to receive his still
proffered aid for my journey. This, of course, delays me. I can muster
about L30 of my own. I do not know whether this is barely sufficient,
but as the delicate constitution of my child may oblige me to rest
several times on the journey, I cannot persuade myself to commence my
journey with what is barely necessary. I have written, therefore, to
Trelawny for the sum requisite, and must wait till I hear from him. I
see you, my poor girl, sigh over these mischances, but never mind, I
do not feel them. My life is a shifting scene, and my business is to
play the part allotted for each day well, and, not liking to think of
to-morrow, I never think of it at all, except in an intellectual way;
and as to money difficulties, why, having nothing, I can lose nothing.
Thus, as far as regards what are called worldly concerns, I am
perfectly tranquil, and as free or freer from care as if my signature
should be able to draw L1000 from some banker. The extravagance and
anger of Lord Byron's letters also relieve me from all pain that his
dereliction might occasion me, and that his conscience twinges him is
too visible from his impatient kicks and unmannerly curvets. You would
laugh at his last letter to Hunt, when he says concerning his
connection with Shelley "that he let himself down to the level of the
democrats."

In the meantime Hunt is all kindness, consideration, and
friendship--all feeling of alienation towards me has disappeared even
to its last dregs. He perfectly approves of what I have done. So I am
still in Italy, and I doubt not but that its sun and vivifying
geniality relieve me from those biting cares which would be mine in
England, I fear, if I were destitute there. But I feel above the mark
of Fortune, and my heart too much wounded to feel these pricks, on all
occasions that do not regard its affections, _s'arma di se, e d'intero
diamante_. Thus am I changed; too late, alas! for what ought to have
been, but not too late, I trust, to enable me, more than before, to be
some stay and consolation to my own dear Jane.

MARY.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_Saturday._

DEAR MARY--Will you tell me what sum you want, as I am settling my
affairs? You must from time to time let me know your wants, that I may
do my best to relieve them. You are sure of me, so let us use no more
words about it. I have been racking my memory to remember some person
in England that would be of service to you for my sake, but my rich
friends and relations are without hearts, and it is useless to
introduce you to the unfortunate; it would but augment your repinings
at the injustice of Fortune. My knight-errant heart has led me many a
weary journey foolishly seeking the unfortunate, the miserable, and
the outcast; and when found, I have only made myself as one of them
without redressing their grievances, so I pray you avoid, as you value
your peace of mind, the wretched. I shall see you, I hope,
to-day.--Yours very faithfully,

E. TRELAWNY.

MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

ALBARO, _23d July 1823_.

DEAREST JANE--I have at length fixed with the _vetturino_. I depart on
the 25th, my best girl. I leave Italy; I return to the dreariest
reality after having dreamt away a year in this blessed and beloved
country.

Lord Byron, Trelawny, and Pierino Gamba sailed for Greece on the 17th
inst. I did not see the former. His unconquerable avarice prevented
his supplying me with money, and a remnant of shame caused him to
avoid me. But I have a world of things to tell you on that score when
I see you. If he were mean, Trelawny more than balanced the moral
account. His whole conduct during his last stay here has impressed us
all with an affectionate regard, and a perfect faith in the
unalterable goodness of his heart. They sailed together; Lord Byron
with L10,000, Trelawny with L50, and Lord Byron cowering before his
eye for reasons you shall hear soon. The Guiccioli is gone to
Bologna--_e poi cosa fara? Chi lo sa? Cosa vuoi che lo dico?_...

I travel without a servant. I rest first at Lyons; but do you write to
me at Paris, Hotel Nelson. It will be a friend to await me. Alas! I
have need of consolation. Hunt's kindness is now as active and warm as
it was dormant before; but just as I find a companion in him I leave
him. I leave him in all his difficulties, with his head throbbing with
overwrought thoughts, and his frame sometimes sinking under his
anxieties. Poor Marianne has found good medicine, _facendo un bimbo_,
and then nursing it, but she, with her female providence, is more bent
by care than Hunt. How much I wished, and wish, to settle near them at
Florence; but I must submit with courage, and patience may at last
come and give opiate to my irritable feelings.

Both Hunt and Trelawny say that Percy is much improved since Maria
left me. He is affectionately attached to Sylvan, and very fond of
_Bimbo nuovo_. He kisses him by the hour, and tells me, _Come il
Signore Enrico ha comprato un Baby nuovo--forse ti dara il Baby
vecchio_, as he gives away an old toy on the appearance of a new one.

I will not write longer. In conversation, nay, almost in thought, I
can, at this most painful moment, force my excited feelings to laugh
at themselves, and my spirits, raised by emotion, to seem as if they
were light, but the natural current and real hue overflows me and
penetrates me when I write, and it would be painful to you, and
overthrow all my hopes of retaining my fortitude, if I were to write
one word that truly translated the agitation I suffer into language.

I will write again from Lyons, where I suppose I shall be on the 3d of
August. Dear Jane, can I render you happier than you are? The idea of
that might console me, at least you will see one that truly loves you,
and who is for ever your affectionately attached

MARY SHELLEY.

If there is any talk of my accommodations, pray tell Mrs. Gisborne
that I cannot sleep on any but a _hard_ bed. I care not how hard, so
that it be a mattress.

And now Mary's life in Italy was at an end. Her resolution of returning to England had been welcomed by her father in the letter which follows, and it was to his house, and not to Mrs. Gisborne's that she finally decided to go on first arriving.

GODWIN TO MARY.

NO. 195 STRAND, _6th May 1823_.

It certainly is, my dear Mary, with great pleasure that I anticipate
that we shall once again meet. It is a long, long time now since you
have spent one night under my roof. You are grown a woman, have been a
wife, a mother, a widow. You have realised talents which I but faintly
and doubtfully anticipated. I am grown an old man, and want a child of
my own to smile on and console me. I shall then feel less alone than
I do at present.

What William will be, I know not; he has sufficient understanding and
quickness for the ordinary concerns of life, and something more; and,
at any rate, he is no smiler, no consoler.

When you first set your foot in London, of course I and Mamma expect
that it will be in this house. But the house is smaller, one floor
less, than the house in Skinner Street. It will do well enough for you
to make shift with for a few days, but it would not do for a permanent
residence. But I hope we shall at least have you near us, within a
call. How different from your being on the shores of the
Mediterranean!

Your novel has sold five hundred copies--half the impression.

Peacock sent your box by the _Berbice_, Captain Wayth. I saw him a
fortnight ago, and he said that he had not yet received the bill of
lading himself, but he should be sure to have it in time, and would
send it. I ought to have written to you sooner. Your letter reached me
on the 18th ult., but I have been unusually surrounded with
perplexities.--Your affectionate Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

On the 25th of July she left Genoa, Hunt accompanying her for the first twenty miles. If one thought more than any other sustained her in her unprotected loneliness, it was that of being reunited in England to her sister in misfortune, Jane Williams, to whom her heart turned with a singular tenderness, and to whom on her journey she addressed one more letter, full of grateful affection and of a touching humility, new in her character.

MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

ST. JEAN DE LA MAURIENNE,
_30th July 1823_.

MY BEST JANE--I wrote to you from Genoa the day before I quitted it,
but I afterwards lost the letter. I asked the Hunts to look for it,
and send it if found, but ten to one you will never receive it. It
contained nothing, however, but what I can tell you in five minutes if
I see you. It told you of the departure of Lord Byron and Trelawny for
Greece, the former escaping with all his crowns, and the other
disbursing until he had hardly L10 left. It went to my heart to borrow
the sum from him necessary to make up my journey, but he behaved with
so much quiet generosity that one was almost glad to put him to that
proof, and witness the excellence of his heart. In this and in another
trial he acquitted himself so well that he gained all our hearts,
while the other--but more when we meet.

I left Genoa Thursday, 25th. Hunt and Thornton accompanied me the
first twenty miles. This was much, you will say, for Hunt. But, thank
heaven, we are now the best friends in the world. He set his heart on
my quitting Italy with as comfortable feelings as possible, and he did
so much that notwithstanding all the [bitterness] that such an event,
joined to parting with a dear friend, occasioned me, yet I have borne
up with better spirits than I could in any way have hoped. It is a
delightful thing, my dear Jane, to be able to express one's affection
upon an old and tried friend like Hunt, and one so passionately
attached to my Shelley as he was, and is. It is pleasant also to feel
myself loved by one who loves me. You know somewhat of what I suffered
during the winter, during his alienation from me. He was displeased
with me for many just reasons, but he found me willing to expiate, as
far as I could, the evil I had done, so his heart was again warmed;
and if, my dear friend, when I return, you find me more amiable and
more willing to suffer with patience than I was, it is to him that I
owe this benefit, and you may judge if I ought not to be grateful to
him. I am even so to Lord Byron, who was the cause that I stayed at
Genoa, and thus secured one who, I am sure, can never change.

The illness of one of our horses detains me here an afternoon, so I
write, and shall put the letter in the post at Chambery. I have come
without a servant or companion; but Percy is perfectly good, and no
trouble to me at all. We are both well; a little tired or so. Will you
tell my Father that you have heard from me, and that I am so far on my
journey. I expect to be at Lyons in three days, and will write to him
from that place. If there be any talk of my accommodations, pray put
in a word for a _hard_ bed, for else I am sure I cannot sleep.

So I have left Italy, and alone with my child I am travelling to
England. What a dream I have had! and is it over? Oh no! for I do
nothing but dream; realities seem to have lost all power over me,--I
mean, as it were, mere tangible realities,--for, where the affections
are concerned, calamity has only awakened greater sensitiveness.

I fear things do not go on well with you, my dearest girl! you are not
in your mother's house, and you cannot have settled your affairs in
India,--mine too! Why, I arrive poor to nothingness, and my hopes are
small, except from my own exertions; and living in England is dear. My
thoughts will all bend towards Italy; but even if Sir Timothy Shelley
should do anything, he will not, I am sure, permit me to go abroad. At
any rate we shall be together a while. We will talk of our lost ones,
and think of realising my dreams; who knows? Adieu, I shall soon see
you, and you will find how truly I am your affectionate

MARY SHELLEY.

With the following fragment, the last of her Italian journal, this chapter may fitly close.

_Journal, May 31._--The lanes are filled with fire-flies; they dart
between the trunks of the trees, and people the land with earth-stars.
I walked among them to-night, and descended towards the sea. I passed
by the ruined church, and stood on the platform that overlooks the
beach. The black rocks were stretched out among the blue waters, which
dashed with no impetuous motion against them. The dark boats, with
their white sails, glided gently over its surface, and the
star-enlightened promontories closed in the bay: below, amid the
crags, I heard the monotonous but harmonious voices of the fishermen.

How beautiful these shores, and this sea! Such is the scene--such the
waves within which my beloved vanished from mortality.

The time is drawing near when I must quit this country. It is true
that, in the situation I now am, Italy is but the corpse of the
enchantress that she was. Besides, if I had stayed here, the state of
things would have been different. The idea of our child's advantage
alone enables me to keep fixed in my resolution to return to England.
It is best for him--and I go.

Four years ago we lost our darling William; four years ago, in
excessive agony, I called for death to free me from all I felt that I
should suffer here. I continue to live, and _thou_ art gone. I leave
Italy and the few that still remain to me. That I regret less; for our
intercourse is so much chequered with all of dross that this earth so
delights to blend with kindness and sympathy, that I long for
solitude, with the exercise of such affections as still remain to me.
Away, I shall be conscious that these friends love me, and none can
then gainsay the pure attachment which chiefly clings to them because
they knew and loved you--because I knew them when with you, and I
cannot think of them without feeling your spirit beside me.

I cannot grieve for you, beloved Shelley; I grieve for thy
friends--for the world--for thy child--most for myself, enthroned in
thy love, growing wiser and better beneath thy gentle influence,
taught by you the highest philosophy--your pupil, friend, lover,
wife, mother of your children! The glory of the dream is gone. I am a
cloud from which the light of sunset has passed. Give me patience in
the present struggle. _Meum cordium cor!_ Good-night!

I would give all that I am to be as now thou art,
But I am chained to time, and cannot thence depart.